Single Flower
by maxtreme225
Summary: AU. A certain dark haired boy meets death willingly, knowingly....What could have been, might have been...maybe even what should have been... ONESHOT. Now edited and hopefully improved. Prequel to Earth to Earth...


Author: HI! It's been a long time since I've posted anything. Hope I my writing is still… urm …of a certain standard. I got a tiny bit carried away I think… Oh, and the character is supposed to be a mystery, up to all of you to guess who or to just slot in whoever you want

Disclaimer: Think about it. If HP belongs to me (which it does not), I wouldn't be posting stories here, would I?

The dark haired boy stared out of the window from his bed. Sitting in an upright position, body leaned back weakly against pillows propped up behind his back, he quietly observed the splendid gardens built all around the hospital he was in, designed to help patients feel a sense of peace. Oh and what gardens they were! Bushes of blood red roses and verdant growth he never knew existed paint a lovely picture he wished he could…. but he could not. Nevertheless, the boy never grew tired of looking out from his window. For the past two months after he had been admitted to Ravenwood Women and Children's Hospital, serenely watching life and nature from his window had been the only source of comfort that he could find.

He was alone in his ward, which was meant for six children, and it suited him just fine. It would have been very awkward for him to make friends with other children, sick children no less, when he already had trouble with the healthy ones back at the orphanage he came from.

His dark eyes gleamed sadly at the memory of the orphanage. It wasn't very pleasant living there. He knew the other orphans, especially those who are of the same age, thought him to be very odd. He never did anything that helped them to believe otherwise. Those who were older were never unkind but they never saw the point of befriending a small, strange, quiet boy. The volunteers were mostly kind to him though, even though he knew he wasn't as well liked as some of the others.

While the other children received praises like "That's a good boy" or "Nicely done, Alice", he was the one who got "What a handsome boy" or "I wished I had your lashes". He was never commented on how he behaved, only on how he looked. Anyone would grow tired of it after a while though some of the other boys, and even girls, used to shoot him envious looks when he received these rare praises. It did not help with his popularity. He smiled sadly at that thought.

Even his birthdays (the day he was found outside the orphanage's door) were never as fun or exciting as the others. They will have cake distributed and some new toys for him but never the racket or the cheerful banter other birthdays inspired. No games were played, other than the traditional treasure hunt. He hated that fact but had never let on.

But even with all the loneliness he faced there, the orphanage was the only place he had ever known that he could call 'home' and that mattered a lot to him. He couldn't imagine himself living anywhere else, even though he sometimes wished it. Despite the years of awkwardness he endured. Ostracized. Ignored. Sighing quietly, the little boy pushed the orphanage out of his mind. None of it matters now.

It was already late in the afternoon, the period of time when the sun was at an angle such that it would illuminate the entire hospital compound with rays of gold. Grass, trees, people strolling in the gardens, even the bed right opposite his, looked as if they were being seen through a thin film of flowing honey.

It was his favorite time of the day. Not because he liked sunsets. Nor was it because he liked his surroundings bathed in golden light. It wasn't even because the nurse on duty would be coming soon to check on him (though he thoroughly enjoys talking to a particular red-haired one).

It was because of the warmth the rays of sunlight brought down with them. It was the only time he would feel that he was truly alive, feeling the sun on his pale, sickly face (or so he imagined his face to be), letting a trace of heat creep up his arms and toes that would often be numb due to the air-conditioning. The sunlight allowed him to also paint shadows on his blanket, enabling him to entertain himself by using his hands to form shapes of birds and other animals (he learnt how to do one of a dog just last week).

But on that day, the boy decided that he wasn't going to play. That particular day, it was special. It was different. He does not know why nor could he explain how. Except that the air was charged with an energy that seem to radiate from his very being. His senses were heightened, alert for some reason he could not fathom. His body, ravaged by last-stage leukemia and lack of anything other than skin and bones, seemed invigorated somehow.

He knew his time is coming soon. It could be next month, maybe next year. Or maybe within the hour. Was this why he felt different? Was today the last day of his existence? He bitterly thought to himself that the red-haired nurse wasn't on duty today. Well, things never went my way, why would it start now, he thought grimly.

Thinking about the red haired nurse made him remember something, a particular something that was currently in a small vase on his side table. It was a small, pinkish blossom (he doesn't know what kind), in full bloom, given to him by the red haired nurse, though it seemed less vibrant than when she had first given it to him.

Taking the small flower into his hand, he held it against his chest and closed his eyes. He could vaguely recall the red haired nurse saying something about a flower having to bloom first before wilting…

In that position he stayed, his eyes closed, hands clasping the flower against his chest. His thin body leaned back against white pillows. Golden sunlight caressing his face, warming his arms and toes. A tiniest hint of a smile, playing on his lips, lingered. Lingered until they found him.

_IN THE EVENING SUN, ON AN EMERALD FIELD_

_WITH THE BREEZE BLOWING, AND THE CLOUDS FLOWING_

_BY A CRACKED STONE, BETWEEN CLUMPS OF GRASS_

_A SINGLE LONE FLOWER WILTED, GONE FOREVER _

AUTHOR: Any comments? Wanna tell me who you think he is? Take note that he is quite young…below 11… REVIEW! I know you are there………


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